


Osorezan Revoir

by melonpaan



Category: Shaman King
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpaan/pseuds/melonpaan
Summary: Love is an encounter, a departure, a transparent piece of cloth. Osorezan revoir.





	Osorezan Revoir

_i._    
It's snowing when they first meet, the first snow he's ever seen, blanketing the streets in thick white waves. What happens next is natural:  
  
He thinks she's beautiful.  
  
She tells him to die.  
  
Love at first sight.  
  
  
_ii._  
He's not sure why, but tears seem to flow more readily in Aomori. Maybe it's the cold; he's not used to such freezing temperatures.  
  
Or maybe it's the girl who threatens to kill him.  
  
It's cold.  
  
Or maybe it's the  _oni_  chasing after him, threatening to kill him.  
  
Ah, Aomori is so cold.   
  
  
_iii_.  
Fiance is a foreign word, but it tastes strangely familiar on her tongue.  
  
Like  _Asakura Yoh_.  
  
Like death on her lips.  
  
She continues on her way, treading quickly disappearing footprints in the snow.  
  
  
_iv_.   
The night passes without so much as another glance at her _—_ she doesn't ever leave her room. All he's left with is the image of her haunted eyes and the words  _go die go die die die die_  ringing in his ears.  
  
Matamune advises him not to dwell on things past; they've only just met after all. But he can't help wondering what she thinks about in there all this time, locked away from the world.  
  
  
_v._  
Darkness.  
  
_Your name?  
N-name?  
Yes child, what is your name?  
  
. . .   
  
You have inside you, an enormous power. If you come with me, I can help you control it.  
I can't—I don't—  
Do you know what an itako is?  
Itako?  
You are an itako.  
  
. . .  
  
Anna. From now on you will be Anna. Kyoyama Anna.  
Anna...  
Anna, would you like to come home with me?  
  
__. . ._  
  
She opens her eyes; she hates remembering things. Her fingers curl around a piece of sheer fabric.  
  
The candles are almost extinguished.  
  
  
_vi._  
The first slap should be the single most painful experience of his life; it leaves a bright red welt on his cheek that burns like fire.  
  
But somehow,  _goodbye_  stings just a bit harder.  
  
_If you come too close to me, it will get you into trouble._  
  
Or is it the tears in her eyes.   
  
_If you want to live a good life, then go home immediately.  
(Run away.)  
There are others that can stay by your side._  
  
Or is it the flash of pure terror in them before she blinks it away and turns her back.  
  
_You came here to meet me.  
...I'm happy._  
  
He doesn't realize it yet, but  _this_  is the moment he decides that he won't leave. He  _can't_.  
  
Even though he doesn't even know who she really is.  
  
Even though another _oni_ is towering over him.  
  
_That's why I asked you to run._  
  
  
_vii._  
What she remembers is this:  
  
That stupid boy's insolence.  
An _oni_ appearing.   
Broken glass.   
That stupid stupid boy with that stupid sword and the mantra  _run away run away why won't you just run away, you stupid stupid boy_?  
  
And then  _RUN AWAY,_   ** _ANNA!_**  
  
And then her own screams and  _get away from there,_   ** _Yoh!_**  
  
And then nothing.  
  
  
_viii._  
They are different.  
  
Awaya Ringo. Bob.   
  
Itako. Shaman.  
  
_Reishi_.  
  
He won't learn the term till much later, not until Manta comes across it in his manjien one day, but he understands it basically, for now. It must be a burden knowing what everyone else thinks, feeling what everyone else feels;  _hatred anger despair sadness_.  
  
He wants to help her. He's not leaving. He won't.   
  
_Why?_    
Well, why indeed.  
  
He doesn't have to say it; she understands it basically, judging from the indignant flush on her cheeks.  
  
The second slap is less painful than the first.  
  
  
_ix._  
Wishes, prayers, hope.   
  
_Let's go to the temple together._  
  
She'd given up those notions a long time ago.  
  
_I think—you'd like to settle that power of yours, right?_    
  
But somehow he's stubbornly persistent.  
  
_There will be a way._  
  
Impossibly naive.  
  
_We can run away together._  
  
Stupid,  _so_  stupid.  
  
_If something happens, then just wait until I become Shaman King. Then I'll do something about it._  
  
But completely sincere. (and maybe that's what scares her the most.)  
  
_I'll wait for you._  
  
Her right hand prickles painfully.  
  
_Un._  
  
  
_x._  
The toll of a New Year's bell has never sounded so ominous.  
  
To Osorezan, the garden of lost souls.  
  
  
_xi._  
She's dressed in white.  
  
_An itako will normally dress in white for one-hundred days before the initiation ceremony._  
  
But she's not normal.  
  
_It is a traditional rite to obtain the purest state of mind._  
  
But she's not pure.  
  
_An itako must be able to see even when she cannot._  
  
But she never even lost her sight.  
  
_Sewing?  
You need to learn to mend what's broken. This will teach you discipline. Make every stitch perfect.  
That doesn't sound so difficult.  
With your eyes closed.   
  
_. . .  
  
On the day of the ceremony, an itako will dress as a bride to indicate that she will marry a god.  
  
She's dressed in white when he calls her name.  
  
White, the color of death.  
  
  
_xii._  
What he will never forget is this:   
  
That there always  _will_  be a way. (no matter how painful.)  
The inevitability of death.  
The pain of  _goodbye_.  
Matamune's strength surging into his body. (his soul.)  
_Hyoui Gattai_.  
  
Her words swallowed by the wind.  
The promise of someday in a necklace of bones.  
  
And then nothing.  
  
When the dust clears, she stands in front of him, flawless porcelain skin and gold matted over her face, white billowing in the wind, stained with blood that  _is not hers_.   
  
  
_xiii._  
Ten-thousand eighty beads.  
  
It sits in the corner of her room gleaming onyx.  
  
Ten-thousand eighty souls.  
  
She closes her eyes and tries again.   
  
_Pain._  
  
She opens her eyes; red seeps into gossamer fabric, pools slowly from her fingertip. Her hands shake.  
  
Once more from the top.  
  
  
_xiv._  
An entire week passes before he decides to leave, even though he's still on vacation. He doesn't want to burden her anymore—she's been through enough. So he packs up his bags and his grandmother accompanies him to the train station. She leaves him with an envelope that he fingers in his hands till the next stop.  
  
The third slap combines pain with surprise.  
  
_Long time no see._  
  
She's dressed in black.  
  
He's still reeling from the shock when she slides into the seat across from him, feet dangling and barely touching the ground. Despite the powers, despite the wish to be stronger, in the end she is still so young, so fragile.  
  
_...Thank you._  
  
She is still just a girl.  
  
The silence stretches on until the next stop, white white endless white out the window. What happens next is artless:  
  
He thinks she's cute.  
  
She unleashes her phantom left.  
  
By the next stop he's far from Aomori, but the tears still come easily.  
  
Ah, goodbyes are so painful.  
  
  
_xv._    
He won't find it until the night falls and the whistle of the train echoes on and on. He's read Matamune's letter so many times that the words are swimming on the backs of his eyelids. He finally decides to tuck it away into his bag when he notices something foreign stuffed into it. He lifts it delicately from its confines and places it onto his lap.   
  
It's a piece of sheer white cloth, intricately interwoven. Immaculate. Perfect.  
  
It's a veil.  
  
And a note written in stiff letters.  
  
_Wait for me._  
  
His fingers curl into the soft fabric.  
  
  
_au revoir.  
until we meet again._

**Author's Note:**

> Written ten years ago to the date, for some of my first and dearest LJ friends, about my first and dearest OTP. This is still kind of a useless retelling of the Osorezan arc since it was pretty perfect to begin with, but ah well. 
> 
> This has been very lightly edited.


End file.
